


Whispers

by Ozma



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurot, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 10,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22486867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: One-shot drabble collection; various topics and pairings relating to Amaurot, Ancients, and Ascians, not all of which are romantic
Relationships: Igeyorhm/Lahabrea, Mitron/Loghrif
Comments: 55
Kudos: 145





	1. Lahabrea/Igeyorhm:  The Archer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lahabrea and Igeyorhm; Lahabrea approaches the newly sundered Igeyorhm for the first time.

The hunter nocks her arrow, pointing at the newly arrived and suspicious intruder.

"Leave." She commands, not permitting herself to be intimidated by the stranger in black; he refuses to obey, his thoughts unreadable behind the anger in his mask.

Without hesitation, she releases the arrow.

Again and again she shoots, each attack as ineffectual as the last, but her pride refuses to admit defeat. She'll need another approach; she nears, skinning blade in hand.

He endures even her most withering assaults without so much as flinching, the wind of her movement doing more to tussle his robes than her weapon.

But -  
At long last -  
The man's hood falls.

And she stops.


	2. Mandragoras: Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyder's mandragora court goes on a journey.

After an uncommonly warm winter, the mandragoras grow rapidly, rousing from their planters a full moon's cycle before anticipated; deep in the night, long after the students and faculty have returned to sleep, they roam Halmarut's Word.

Following their King, the retinue travels until forest fades to gilded cavern and beyond - their journey abruptly cut short by an impassible stone lake. Such setbacks do little to deter the court and, after a failed attempt at soaking their roots in the salty waters, they return to their beds of birth, daring to venture an alternate path. Trudging through meadows that expand beyond sight, gold at last fades to black and warmth to chill, the cold cave illuminated only by infrequent, dull suns. 

Plodding the darkness with newfound caution, the King’s court passes countless dark, empty maws, searching the oversized havens briefly before deeming them unsuitable for their kingdom, roaming until their legs can barely support their weight and their bare feet are raw - until the King's retainers question His decision, even as they know no other path but forward. 

The Prince stumbles; at last the retinue can continue no more. Recognizing their dire dilemma, the King at last calls a halt, guiding his friends and family into the nearest caverns, taking shelter under a large, protective formation in the center, climbing its walls and tugging down huge, white leaves with twisting dark patterns from its top to use as bedding.

He does not know what to do.

As the King laments the failure of His doomed journey, the court rests, rejuvenating their energy under the lowest light, and, in the mind of each, dread grows at the acceptance that return is impossible.

Eventually, light’s faint tease strengthens to a glow and, with it, comes it rejuvenating blessing; but as easily as the star offers succor, so too, might it snatch its gifts away.

The ground rumbles. Slow and deep, each pulse of the Earth is accompanied by a strange shuffle, the lights brightening as the beats intensify.

They'll be safe here, the King consoles His companions with light pats. They must.

Nearer and nearer, the sound approaches. Pulling the pale leaves over them as cover, the retinue peeks out from below, witnessing the source enter their cavern.

Before them stands a black shroud; tall enough to blot the sun, only red features disrupt its darkness. With each movement, the massive shade shakes the foundations of their temporary home.

But it is not its arrival that rends the King with shakes. The intruder stills, swiveling its head as it observes their haven - searching - searching -

The giant kneels, lifting the heavy, protective leaves from their bodies.

The Queen screams first, and, like the first crack of a tree, the rest of the retinue follows suit, chaotic screeches echoing as they aimlessly dart from the safety of their maw. 

. . .

Lahabrea blinks, but whether ‘tis from the harsh scent of fresh onion or confusion, he can’t quite ascertain.

"What is going on here?”


	3. Mitron's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3.1's Echo scene, from Mitron's PoV. 
> 
> Even in death, Mitron is denied the sea.

They’re gone. 

_Loghrif’s_ gone. 

He trembles, be it in weakness or despair.

He’s failed. 

Fools, _savages._

“Is this how you believe you can save your world?”

His muscles burn, refusing to heed him, searing away the serenity of the sea he holds so dear .

All life rises from its bosom, and so should all life meet its end in unfathomable waters –

In the peace of darkness, Mitron would know his end. 

But he is denied even that.

It’s bright, burning – 

Scalding him from the inside out, it unmakes his flesh as easily as he makes it. 

Melting, escaping, torn from the source of life. 

There is no sea, here - no Loghrif - matter how he wishes for it.

Only accursed light.


	4. AmaurotineWoL/Lahabrea, Night Pegasus: Returning Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3.X, but nearer to 3.1, past Lahabrea/AmaurotineWoL. The Warrior of Light meets a new, old friend.

The origin of rumors is oft elusive, and this is more curious than most:  
Over the past moons, a man robed in black was witnessed repeatedly in the Diadem, a lone shade tainting the Crown’s jewels.

_The Ascians yet meddle._

Though the sightings have diminished, coinciding with Lahabrea and Igeyorhm's defeat in Azys Lla, your course is clear.

A sun passes as you search; and another; and another; the Ascian hides himself well – as they always do – but with no clear purpose, it seems unlikely that any of Lahabrea’s servants remained in the Diadem after his demise.

On the third day’s dusk, almost out of supplies and soon to admit defeat, you at last notice a disturbance, naught but the tiniest oddity hiding in the brush. Its faint glow concealed by the surrounding tress, only through fortune's favor do you spy its entrance from the corner of your vision.

With care, you land, clenching your weapon.

Each step silent on the soft soil, if the Ascian learns of your arrival, 'twill not be by sound.

Nearing until shadow overcomes the faint glow, you kneel, pushing the bramble aside.

A black face greets you – but not that of an Ascian.

Long and thin, the beast – a colt small enough to be lifted in two hands - trots forward, stumbling over its own feet in excitement, the tips of its clunky, oversized wings, glowing red as the sun on the distant horizon, dragging against the ground.

It's within a pace of you when it stills, comprehending its visitor as a stranger.

Its welcoming warmth chills as the babe flees to the deep the shadows in its home: a tiny stable, no more than 2 fulms deep and tall, lit by an alchemic lantern. With solid walls protecting any inhabitant the elements, the stable is too tiny for even a bundle of hay; instead, a few short, soft grasses act as a bed and, on the opposite wall, is a trough of water and bucket of food nigh empty.

Judging by the short length of the nearby grass, it has already started grazing, but without a fresh source of water, its situation remains precarious.

You kneel, offering a hand; you’ve neither gifts nor fresh supper, but with no evidence of a nearby mother, perhaps it'll take to you so that you might gift some of yours.

Step by cautious step it nears, sniffing each angle, pushing, and then sniffing again, before at last its tiny nose rests between fingers.

With a growing smile, your hand moves to stroke its neck, fingers knowing more than logic where to pat and you permit instinct guide, knowing the tiny, lonely beast as you might a beloved pup.

“Hello, there.”

Fingers twine between red primaries, still too short to guide in the wind, the glow of its wings illuminating your hands.

The colt leaps from your grasp and into the air, soaring low around your head like an oversized vilekin, its rapid wingbeats revealing its excited inexperience.

It wobbles, using its strength and aether to hold itself up rather than the winds, but its head is held high, so _very_ proud, whinnying as it darts about like a freed chocobo.

Its excitement contagious, heat blossoms in your chest as you observe the colt’s chaotic path through the skies, darting far outside its tiny stable before circling back again, reveling in its freedom.

Is _this_ why the Ascian was here?

An _Ascian_?

How laughable.

Legends speak of the Night Pegasus being a messenger of death, residing within the abyss until summoned as a harbinger of apocalypse, but this little beast is as much an innocent babe as any other colt in the Crown. This is no mythological nightmare, but a simple, oddly colored babe.

But, precious as the colt is, you’ve a job to do. You hold your hands out as a platform and, eagerly, the colt lands on them, each dainty step of its hooves releasing the tingle of aether into your palms.

“You should stay here until your caretaker returns.”

The colt's head tilts, hearing your words but unable to understand or heed them.

No matter your will, it does not belong to you. You lower the colt back into the stable, turning to summon your mount. You’ve work -

The colt butts its nose against you, strong despite its slight size.

Steeling yourself against its big blue eyes and soft whines proves as much of a challenge as invading any Garlean castrum.

You _mustn’t._

Yet with each butt, the warmth of its aether spreads up your leg; familiar; affectionate. _Right._

_Oh, very well._

If the colt is to be manipulated by the Ascians, then you’ll be doing it a favor. 

Kneeling, you scoop the small beast into your arms once more, its whining immediately returning to excitement.

The Ascian can wait; you’ve a more important duty.


	5. Ancient One: Irresponsible Creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light learns the challenges of creation.

_Pat, pat, pat._

Its chasing footfall bears a familiar and relaxing patter differing little from a mammet's, the shuffle of its communal robes identical any mortal mage’s.

_Pat, pat, pat._

The Ancient One follows in your wake, attempting to display loyalty and devotion equal to any minion, despite its unique origins. At least until -

A shadow envelops its hood; a stranger’s hand passes over its head as he goes about his business.

The patters fall to silence, as e’er they do and, as e'er you do, you turn, greeted with a far too predictable sight:

The Ancient One trembles, its tiny arms held above its head as it cowers, ready to dart away at a moment’s notice.

Fast movements, distractions from greater heights, astral magicks – all send the minion spiraling into the abyss of terror, fleeing like its forebears once fled Amaurot's burning rains.

Fear is its being; such is the image that fluttered your mind upon drawing from Anamnesis’ concept.

It knows naught else; it will _ne’er_ know aught else.

 _If_ such a being can even be said to feel fear; a shade – _a doll_ \- not truly alive, its emotions are pale imitations of the living.

Yet still –

You move from the passage to a nearby corner, kneeling in the morning’s bright light, motioning for its approach.

\- It _learns._

The doll’s wary steps are akin to a prey beast sensing its end. Approaching quickly, you hear its artificial breaths: each a panicked hum is scream in a voice that is no voice at all, a pale mimicry of a language long since lost.

Fear may be its essence, the very vision it was created to embody, but that is not _all_ ‘tis.

You pull it into your lap, its highly pitched wails softening to rasps, like the calming of tears.

Its tiny fingers encircle yours.

You’ve created this.

Though it owes its existence to curious whim – the matrices were no mere illusion and the attempt was successful with alarming ease, the formation not unlike summoning aether while forming Eden’s images – such a being is your responsibility.

Even doomed to eternally fluctuate between terror and calm -

Running stray fingers down its tiny back, across its silken robes, at last the Ancient One stills, ready to continue its adventure, eagerly peering at you through the wide eyes of its mask.

\- It deserves the opportunity for life, as does any other.


	6. Hades, Hythlodaeus: A Constant Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hades and Hythlodaeus friendship; daily life in the Bureau of the Secretariat.

“Next, please.”

The orderly quiet of the Bureau of the Secretariat temporarily shatters at Hades’ dry summons, each half-dozing visitor simultaneously rousing as they check their number, only to fall back into disappointed passivity at the mismatch; it’ll only be a matter of time before they relax once more.

Hades cannot blame them, not when he midday quiet is disrupted only by a faint breeze and the rare tourists or specialized visitors looking to gain access to Amaurot’s amenities.

His efforts at rousing prove equally futile; taking a deep gulp of long-cold coffee, Hades downs the remaining contents. What little remains will inevitably prove insufficient in helping him survive the workday.

The slight shuffle of approaching footsteps returns his attention to the present, fixing his disappointment into formal neutrality.

“How may I assist you?” As anticipated, the visitor – _Orange_ \- requires a pass of some sort, her explanation fortuitously professional and brief.

His fingers dart rhythmically across the pad, securing the data within the system; it’s a simple process, if lengthy.

“Thank you.” Hades confirms the credentials with a conclusive swipe. “Please return to your seat and await the registrar’s summons.” Orange gifts a gentle half bow and nod as she dutifully obeys, awaiting the second queue.

Such is his role. In and out, in and out, visitors arrive and depart; even a constant stream of color becomes a tediously blurring flow in the repetition.

“Next.” He clears the tablet, the cycle beginning anew.

The new arrival’s steps are far too exuberant for the bureau; accompanied by a pleased hum, his next customer -

“Ah, Hades, what a coinc-!”

“Next -” He calls again, but Hythlodaeus coughs in time, concealing the call.

“Don’t be like that, I waited –“

“ _This_ time.” The _last_ time, Hythlodaeus had come from _behind_ the counter, at the blessing of his manager, under the guise of being sent by the Architect to ascertain the continued stability of the Bureau’s matrices.

“-As do the others.” He waves Hades’ antagonism off as water might oil. “Besides, isn’t it time for lunch? I brought you something.”

He rustles through his disorganized satchel, pushing work and notes casually to each side, before finally finding what he searches for.

In an outstretched hand, Hythlodaeus offers a fresh, temperature moderated cup of coffee.

“You look like you need it.”

Briefly, Hades almost feels remorse for his earlier hostility. Almost. He takes the offering with genuine gratitude. “Thank you.”

Hythlodaeus shrugs, the beginnings of a smile on his lips, as he returns his attentions to his bag.

“Oh, and this as well.”

Onto Hades’ desk, Hythlodaeus lifts a tiny robed figure, its head tilting to the side in seeming bafflement.

Hades needs not spend more than a moment examining it:

It looks familiar.

F _ar_ too familiar.

Surely, it’s coincidence.

Would that Hades could give Hythlodaeus the benefit of the doubt. “What’s this?”

The creation – glowing and devoid of color, it can be naught else – bored of its new keeper already, toddles over to Hades' work pad, falling into stillness atop the screen.

“A newly approved concept. I’m told it’ll improve your concentration.”

Though such objects are often employed in scholarly pursuits, Hades doubts the doll's true intent, the traces of a smile on Hythlodaeus’ lips all but confirming his suspicions.

“Anyway, be sure to finish your drink, I’ll not be held accountable for our friend’s actions should you nap through supper _again_.”

Hades rolls his eyes, knowing full well the motion is unseen behind his mask. "Don't worry about me."

“I have to, because you won't. See you later, Hades.” Hythlodaeus departs the Bureau, waving his goodbye in that way of his – the one invoking irritation and nostalgia in equal measure.

His friend's distraction, though brief, is one he can ill afford as the hours progress. Hades returns his attentions to his desk.

From a sitting position, the doll observes, its head bobbing in time with Hades’ movements.

 _Improve Concentration_ , indeed. Such objects are unnecessary for _this_ job _._

“Up.” He scolds the doll, willing it aside.

The creation doesn’t move.

Hades frowns.

Small enough to be easily lifted, Hades tugs the doll up by its underarms like her might a small child; its light frame gives easily, but it clings hard to the tablet, refusing to release it and preventing him from doing any further work.

Another approach is necessary;

Hades attempts to roll the minion over; he tugs in effort to slide the pad from under its rear; he even lifts the pad over his head, hoping to spook the doll with heights.

Each attempt is as futile as the last, the little nuisance determined and unmoving.

It seems this doll exists solely to irritate Hades –

Very much like its creator. 

The familiarity of its appearance is most certainly intentional.

Granting Hythlodaeus his temporary victory, Hades lowers his work – pad, doll, and all - into his bag, full ready to acquiesce to the creation's determined demands for lunch break. But Hythlodaeus’ miniature has no intention of being returned to the shadows; struggling and flopping like a wild creature in the hands of an inexperienced researcher, it slaps its tiny hands and kicks its tiny feet in frustration.

\- but at least it drops the pad.

Its fiercest blows are little more distraction than moth's flutter, but Hades nonetheless lowers the doll to the ground, where it rushes to his side, shifting its balance forward and back in satisfied eagerness as it awaits the upcoming journey.

“You’re quite satisfied with yourself, aren’t you?” He’s not wholly certain _which_ Hythlodaeus he speaks to as he lifts the coffee - _this_ gift, at least, bears no mischievous intent - to his lips.

The minion nods in a way he knows far too well.

“I’m taking my lunch.” Hades calls to his coworker; as with the rest of his work, Hades’ backup – Sunset - is inoffensively dull.

Hades appreciates him.

“You’re going _out_?” Sunset hides his shock well as he moves to replace Hades’ at the counter.

“Would that I not.” Pointedly, Hades ignores Sunset’s light chuckle and curious look at the doll as he passes.

Aye, he’ll grant Hythlodaeus his victory, _just this once_ , but it’ll prove an ephemeral success.

The doll excitedly rushes behind him, tugging at Hades’ robes every so often to remind him of its presence.

A specialized Cubus will suffice.

Hades smiles.

Hythlodaeus won’t be expecting him this time.


	7. Lahabrea: Hope borne of Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lahabrea's lab examines the captured Archaeotania, hoping to discover answers to the phenomenon known "the Final Days." Not terribly shippy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a request, uses their OC, Pandora.

The wards remain stable; in such faint light, their violet glow reflects off the black floors of Lahabrea’s Word. 

Pandora marks the testing schedule ‘Secured’ one final time for the night, leaving the specimen’s security to the morning arrivals.

Archaeotania breathes long and slow, deep in strictly enforced slumber; there is risk in even containing the nightmare, but it’s imperative that Anyder gleans all potential data from its presence – a gamble that yet proves beneficial. Studies confirm hypotheses and pose new questions alike, observations evidencing that which the Word dreads:

 _Spontaneous creation -_ a nigh unbelievable revelation that unsettles every senior researcher in Anyder.

The research provides encouraging developments as well: Archaeotania’s scream demonstrates none of the effects of the planet’s wail, though Pandora would sooner not repeat the circumstances necessitating _that_ confirmation.

Fundamentally, results point to Archaeotania being no different from any other specimen from across the sea and yet its might – in both essence and capability – remains otherwise unseen in any organism, living or otherwise. The amount of energy necessary to engender such an entity is -

Again the specimen wheezes, its harsh gasps more roar than breath, interrupting Pandora’s musings.

-Its existence is simply outside the realm of possibility under normal circumstances.

But these are far from normal circumstances. Pandora – nay, the entirety of Lahabrea’s Word – _has_ no expectations; this _Sound_ is unlike data in any records.

The same result repeats, no matter the specimen: its composition is an infuriating combination familiar and _off_. Its existence lacks unity, akin to a mismatch in compatibility between individuals conflicting in their vision for a shared concept.

"Are there reports of cooperation in their terror?" Pandora muses, speaking thoughts aloud. The aether is simply too dense, the fundamental formation too illogical; such existence defies reason for a singular individual’s creation. "Lahabrea. . .?"

He focuses intently on the nightmarish beast, mired in some amalgamation of weariness, worry, and stubbornness, not bothering to conceal his growing burden. Within the lab, such acts are unnecessary; Pandora knows him far too well. The tremble of Lahabrea’s fingers, the gauntness of his cheeks, and his slow breaths all reveal rare vulnerability – though Pandora is in no place to criticize, not when she is in a similar state.

They must find a solution – and soon. The Sound approaches.

"There was a curious report.” He finally replies. “The specimens far outnumber the fallen. Yet they’ve no interest in consumption, only destruction."

"They are consuming aether. . .?" An oddity, but one that warrants further consideration. Enough foreign aether would alter their fundamental core resulting in the observed internal incompatibility, but Lahabrea has familiarized himself with the reports even more deeply than even Pandora, and Archaeotania has not been recorded exhibiting such tendencies.

"They must be." He looks up, meeting Pandora’s eyes though their masks.

"Please, elaborate."

"’Spontaneous creation.’ Unable to control themselves and limit their aether consumption, the inflicted are devoured by the act itself, body and soul alike."

In the madness, victims use their very _souls_ to provide energy to their nightmarish art.

Pandora cannot resist the tremble that flows from her core to her toes.

"Then Archaeotania. . ." Perhaps born of crazed lovers unwilling to part, or a family desperate to reach safety together, magicks and souls alike twining, panic urging the others forward until naught remains.

Nay, the Word is not the place for such sleep-deprived delusions - and yet, there might be truth to the corrupted fantasy. Terror and desperation would drive the inflicted close, their shared desires and fears linking creation and idea alike.

"Defending the citizens against such force will be challenging.” There must be some method to counter them, though with their variety and strength, any singular concept will prove unsuitable. "We'd have to match them and that's -"

"Mayhaps it can be done. They might be equaled in a similar manner." Lahabrea whispers, before falling into silence, his fingers clutching the table. Archaeotania wheezes, but not deeply enough to be heard over the rapid pulses of Pandora’s heart. He can’t be implying – “I am loath to ask sacrifice of anyone, but -"

To protect the city, the people, the _star_ , Pandora would offer herself without question, as would so many others; would that the situation stabilize, so that such does not become necessity.

"We'll need a method to overcoming the instinct for restraint." She muses, more to herself than Lahabrea.

Through hesitation, he nods; there is no cause for optimism in this plan.

". . .Once freed of flesh, the participants will need guidance." Pandora continues, though Lahabrea needs not be told; wayward Souls are not simply going to unite at whim. A nightmare like Archaeotania exists from despair and desperation giving rise to shared will. “If we’ve a shared image, a strong concept all in the city are familiar with, any unions might proceed more smoothly -

“That is for a later time.” He interrupts, the plan’s weight a nigh unimaginable burden. If he acts, countless might be saved, but at the cost of countless others. If he does not, the entire city might fall. It is too much for any man to decide alone. “The hour is late. We’ll discuss preparations with the Word on the morrow.”

“Of course.” It bodes ill if even Lahabrea commands sleep, but he speaks true: they are in no position to make such decisions alone.

“You seem eager.” He observes as Pandora gathers her paperwork, motioning for the lights to fade as they exit the containment facility.

Does she? 

Perhaps she is.

“There is yet hope.”


	8. The Ancient Ones of Anamnesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Large Ones are gone, but they remain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shared idea with Koda.

The Large Ones are gone and with them, their touch.

The gentle pats atop their hood, adjusting their masks -  
The affectionate warmth as they are lifted from their feet -  
The curiously soothing hum, cooing in delight -

The Large Ones are gone and only _they_ remain.

Together, they lift the concepts, righting them into their slots.  
Together, they care for the plants - beloved of the gentlest Large One.  
Together, they sort the misplaced texts, fallen in flame and again in sundering light.

But it is apart that they fall.

One stills while dusting - another as it wipes a window, its mask clattering to the floor; their robes lay throughout the halls, scattered in careless lumps, owners unable to continue their duty.

Once frequent patters silence, as ephemeral as the fading, pleasant hums remaining within their memory.

Watering cans rust and plants overgrow; beds, chairs, and lamps, long readied, remain unused.

When at last the strangers come, Small Ones that are not Large Ones, its feet fall alone.

The Small Ones muddy the floors and remove the concepts - they are so heavy now, fated to remain eternally unrighted - they shove tables and misplace tools.

It is but one, but it continues as it always has - and always must -

Until it does not.

Its robes fall onto the matrix; a final act of futility, a duty seen to the end.

Curious echoes ring through the halls - the first of the like in ages - and it cannot rise to greet them.

"What's this?" The source murmurs.

Through fading sight, the stranger is but shadow, but even in encroaching darkness it recognizes _that_ light.

The Large Ones have returned.


	9. OC/Igeyorhm:  Ouroboros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MWoL/Igeyorhm, slight AU, 5.0: Igeyorhm confronts her partner in the Rak'tika Greatwood, concerned about the path he is taking.
> 
> For a request, uses a specific OC.

Memory works in curious ways.

Of all the history bared on mortal souls – memory borne so deeply it transcends single lives – that which persists continually manages to defy expectation.

Night’s return would grace such flawed, incomplete memory; resting soundly in the pond’s depths, gems representing souls would float twixt reflected constellations, indistinguishable from distant stars.

But Igeyorhm has no need for such dreams – she would see to the ceremony’s restoration in truth, beyond such primitive rituals.

A tiny insect lands on the water, ripples blurring clarity and disrupting nostalgic delusion.

"This course is madness." The light tensing in J'atohl’s shoulders at Igeyorhm’s arrival proves as satisfying as ever.

She needs neither introduction nor explanation; already she risks greatly. Even under the Greatwoods’ boughs, the light’s relentless searing seeks to reject her. Time is limited and she would not spend it on pointless pleasantries.

How fortuitous, then, that her partner desires the same.

"You offer an alternative?"

She nears, the truth confirmed with each step; contrasting light and shadow mete in conflict; just being so near soothes soul’s essence in illusory calm – an all-consuming stillness raging below serenity – contrasting the soul’s – and her - natural state.

"No." She'd sooner not see J'atohl’s success on the First, no matter how imperative he is to Emet-Selch's designs. Though not in Emet-Selch's service, Igeyorhm has no intention of acting against him; if that relegates her to a role in observation, so be it. Igeyorhm meets J'atohl’s eyes; try as she might, no matter the era, _he_ so inevitability - foolishly - pursues his course. "Even now, you play at hero, heedless of consequence. . ."

Expecting otherwise would be folly.

"Consequences?"

The sigh long withheld at last releases; how very like J'atohl. But mayhap such ignorance explains her inability to turn away. She too, once -

She takes his hand in hers, brushing the claws of her gloves against his wrist. At contact, a sharp, cramping spike builds; the stasis swelling in his veins is antithetical to existence itself, to say nothing of _her_ existence, yet ‘tis _she_ who cannot yet bring herself to release _him_.

The entire star . . .

It’s as if Igeyorhm walks memory – one she'd sooner never again recall.

"Tread carefully. You journeyed through the remains of Mhach – their Ark.” She warns, knowing full well he’ll not heed her. “I needn’t repeat their tale.” _Her_ tale. “The greatest of the Thirteenth’s heroes succumbed. Permit not eagerness to overcome sense.”

“Speak plainly. You did not show yourself to dance about riddles.” Even bound deeply by brood, her partner does not pull away.

“The Light will overtake you, rending your flesh and scouring your soul, leaving naught save unmatched husk. Once more the world will fall to the heroes intended to protect it.”

Nay, Igeyorhm does not like the First.

“I won’t let that happen.”

“I’m quite certain you’ll try, but the frailty of mortality is not something you can yet overcome.” It is Igeyorhm who looses her grip, the stifling of J'atohl’s light unbearable. “Do not lose yourself in your purpose. If you wish to save this star, find another way.”

“You needn’t worry for me.” Igeyorhm is certainly not worried - and _definitely_ not for him. “Your companion isn’t.”

“Compa –“ Indignation rouses, stifled equally quickly. Matters of their kind are of no concern to servants of Light. “He is not my companion. For all of our sakes, I’d sooner Emet-Selch not learn of my presence. Or of this discussion.”

“What does he want?” His is a blatant, and futile, attempt at gleaning information. Igeyorhm is not wont to offer aught readily.

She crosses her arms. “I’ve told you more than enough already. No matter our relationship, I am foremost a servant of the one true God.”

A long-emphasized truth; J'atohl’s nod accompanies dawning understanding that there will be no further discussion on the matter.

Igeyorhm has done what she can; if he will not heed her, then –

She closes her eyes.

Emet-Selch’s is a labyrinthine predicament.

“Many are observing your undertaking. I know not when we’ll speak again.” Igeyorhm lifts her fingers to her partner’s cheek, the slightest dispersal of essence roaming bare flesh; she’d sooner not their parting be on such dire terms, but –

J'atohl will need anchoring memory of Igeyorhm, too, if he’s to succeed – to prevent this star from meeting the same fate as hers.

Igeyorhm cannot but pray his strength will be enough.


	10. Hythlodaeus/Warrior of Light: Definition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bubble and fragment are incomplete separately, but together they grow.

Within context of forgotten histories, the bubbles are written; if the fundamental methodology of creation forms lines, both sharp and round, and aether the letters, then each bubble exists as a single word, a fragment necessary to understanding this grandest of theatres.

Across the stage of shadows, one figment amongst many wanders a manuscript absent color. As much a fleeting aspect of theatrical property as any other, this bubble - this _word_ \- was penned of error.

A repeated thought overemphasized;  
A sentence rewritten, its formation irritatingly off;  
A fundamentally flawed aspect in the paragraph's structural integrity.

Within the script's context, the word is a phantasmal adjective, granting life to the vision -

And yet it is but a flaw that slips through the proofing: this bubble is assigned the name Hythlodaeus and he is the first of his kind to question the sky-that-is-sea.

With the gift of a name comes awareness, permitting rationality that acknowledges existence:

An existence long broken, a history long sundered -   
An existence that is not.

A bubble might land, expand, and, conditionally, persist, but it is still a bubble, restricted by the confines of its creation; stray outside its limitations, expand its weight, and it will burst all the same, no matter its foundations.

Some might find comfort in such a simple existence, but acceptance contrasts the nature of the sentences Hythlodaeus was written to emulate.

They would seek to better themselves and so too must he.

It is not in the script to approach, but he does so all the same; a single color in a city of shade summons with unfamiliar intensity and, through memory that is not memory, Hythlodaeus _knows_.

Taciturn yet gentle, the stranger is as much a fragment as Hythlodaeus; within the aether that makes up Hythlodaeus’ flesh, their gentle smile and patience sets his chest aglow.

The bubble pulses, its barriers thinning; his is a word incapable of using letters to form memory, and yet he was created to bear such warmth all the same -

And Hythlodaeus would grasp for it.

Are they feelings of the individual once known as Hythlodaeus -  
Hades' perception of his feelings -  
Or does Hythlodaeus exist to embody the feelings of Hades, expressing themselves in ways he otherwise remains incapable of-

This is a theatre and he is but a word, the contents of the next sentence eternally eluding him, but Hythlodaeus is also Amaurotine and theirs is an existence that challenges limitation.

As his tale concludes and the guest's name is called, the bubble known as Hythlodaeus slips, his role complete. Though he wobbles, clinging to his formational letters, Hythlodaeus calls once more to the stranger - desperately reaching for the beacon of blue in the depths of darkness.

His new, old friend smiles, gifting a warmth exclusively for him; an adjective atop an adjective, they offer meaning to _Hythlodaeus_ , redefining the sentence the bubble was born to form.

The walls waver, his grasp slipping.

He has only just understood, he would not yet lose -

The bubble bursts and word becomes memory.


	11. Ancient One, Elidibus/AmaurotineWoL: Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Terminus reaches Amaurot, an estranged AmaurotineWoL (14th) yearns to see Elidibus just one more time.
> 
> An impossibility, but -
> 
> The 14th has an idea.

"You've a very important role."

Through precise song, the Large One communicates, though the small one knows not words.

"Take this to him." The Large One pats its head, placing a bushel of vivid blue its hands; the small one holds its assigned charge closely. "These are from . . . no – he'll know. "

Through somber song, the Large One issues its commands, twining voice and life, imbuing the small one's core with knowledge and duty – it knows little else.

"The city will be fraught with peril, but the nightmares should pay you no heed."

Through lamenting song, the small one accepts the Large One's hope and sadness, though it does not understand.

"Go now, with all haste. Do not stop, no matter the scene before you. I'll aid who I can, but for most there's naught we can do."

The Large One holds the door open, granting the small one passage into the quaking city of black, gold, and red.

Commands issued, the small one darts towards its objective; it needs not – cannot – do otherwise. What is it, if not its role?

The environs tremble in cacophonic rupture as the small one passes, highly unlike the gentle song of its master. This is not the city it knows, but its master's determination is unmatched – and so, too, is its.

The small one knows only what has been offered, and so knows what does not belong: beasts roar, claws soaked red click onto the golden bridges, their breaths heavy and low, incomprehensible babbles in broken, lost melody, accompanying them.

The twisted entities heed not the small one, their raspy gasps excited only by the living and so its is an unhindered journey.

As does the small one, so do the Large Ones focus on themselves; and as with the small one, they've no alternative:

A Small Large One pants, wailing over a Larger One, tugging at her unmoving sleeve as the beasts near, feet scraping at the bridge.  
A Large One sings into the rubble as the building above creaks over his head, but no One remains to answer.  
The small one presses on, despair at its back.  
A Large One stares at the sky, where gold streaks red, twining its fingers through strands of a companion resting eternally in her lap.  
A Lone One steps up onto a ledge at the city's edge, leaping from the square into the abyss.

The small one grasps its precious charge nearer.

These Large Ones are not like the small one's master; their song is erratic and uncontrolled, shrieking and discordant rather than soothing. These Ones are lost – but the small one is not.

It knows not the city's passages, nor even the city, but its master knows the path and so too does the small one. Between crumbling passages and under fallen buildings, it progresses, holding its precious prize close so that the bundle remains unharmed.

At last it nears its destination.  
  
Once, this place was visited by many Large Ones, its master knows, but now succumbs to the sky's devastation. Though beast and citizen alike might shirk from raging flames, the small one shares no such hesitation. The small one and its gift pass even inferno, untouched by the limitations of the living, protected by the strongest of its master's magicks as it continues its journey.

The farther it progresses from its master's song, surroundings once filled with sound fall into the cold silence, only the low rumble of the city's foundations and the crackle of flame interrupting the light patter of the small one's footfall. 

There are no more cries here, nor harsh, heavy gasps, nor trembling pants. This might once have been the safest place in the city, for not even smoke and the raging flame consuming the external architecture are yet to broach the depths.

Yet none living remain in the safety of the city's cradle and an oversized corpse of a beast tossed aside at its core offers adequate explanation.

This is its goal.

A gentle light pulses at the center of the chamber.

The small one does not stop, even as the black fades to purple, as bridges of gold turn to crystal, not when it nears its goal.

In this place – a land its master does not know, there is no destruction, no crumbling paths. There is a singular route –

And at its end, the small one finds _them_.

The Large One it seeks stands alone, a warm beacon the small one would recognize even in the densest crowd.

There is no sound here, not even its footfall reveal its approach; with a gentle tug against the Large One's robes to draw attention, the small one holds up its gift: a bouquet of delicate, prized, beloved – valuable – flowers glow blue, made resilient and eternal from its Large One's heart.

"These are. . ." The Large One that his master sings for stills, his chest as tight as those resting within the cradle. At last, he hums a curious hum – a hum perhaps even sadder than the small one's master.

"We cannot delay any longer." A Large One unassigned to the small one nears, but his face is covered with a mask redder than even the city aflame. "What is –. . .ah."

From the small one's hands, the Large One plucks but a single flower. "Thank you, little one, for braving the darkness that we might bear these cherished hopes and dreams." But that's not right; all the flowers are the Large One's. The small one pushes the bouquet into its new master's hand as best it can, persisting even as he denies the gift rightly his. "There's no need for that. Let us go meet our fate."

Lifting the small one and holding it near, its new master turns to his companion. No more do they sing to each other, for communication is unnecessary. 

Like with the small one, they have only their duty.

Theirs is a song for the City that creaks – for the Star that cries – and for the Large Ones who wail.

At their call, purple surrounds the small one and its master -

And in its final moments, the small one understands hope.

* * *

At the statue's feet, a single, tiny petal of blue falls.


	12. Hades/Hythlodaeus/AmaurotineWoL: Greeter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5.3 Spoilers; 5.0. FemWoL
> 
> On the creation of Hythlodaeus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The teeniest, tiniest drabble.

It's been so long since she returned home.

In time lost, a world-weary wanderer, feet aching and attire dusted, would pass through welcoming gates; the aetheryte was an option, if necessity or whim suited, but that was not her way - not _their_ way.

Frequently, she would arrive unannounced, but _they_ knew -

They knew.

How brightly her soul's beacon shined – _shines_ \- bearing an intensity that burned like the sun. Such uniqueness permitted Hades and Hythlodaeus ease in ascertaining her whereabouts, ever needing only a moment.

Such is a family's simple ritual, as consistent and warm as the passage of seasons.

Hythlodaeus was rarely the first at the gates, but that said naught of his eagerness; with teasing feint, he'd turn queries on his wellness to local gossip, pretending he'd not been fussing over her beside Hades but an hour before.

But the traveler knew -

She always knew.

At the height of the city - so limited now, so small, just like the star's inhabitants - sitting patiently at the outskirts, a shade is born, laughing gently.


	13. Elidibus/WoL: New Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 5.3; AST WoL.
> 
> Azem summons the stars.

Should your theories hold, _this_ time the summoning will be successful.

Close though Sharlayan might cling to its secrets, few outside its borders command their arts with your proficiency. Yet, for all the skill and might at your command, Ley Lines proved futile, for yours is not a magick of the land and Astrology disregards your most precious constellations, focusing its divination efforts on separate stars entirely.

The job stone's knowledge was insufficient and so, like most arts, you charted your own path, regressing your study a simple schedule marking _those_ guardian stars at their height.

And beside the stars, the sun travels. In analemma, angles and heights, too, vary across the cycle; it is through the relationship between these stars and the sun that at last you found success.

Some stars cannot answer, but those that can almost eagerly heeded your command. In the short, repeated durations at your side – longer and longer as your skill yet grows – they offer gentle discussion and rousing warmth in fondness and teases of memory lost; bubbling just beneath the surface, tales lost to time spring to your lips in their presence, ready and willing to escape their confines should necessity demand.

All respond - all except _him._

 _His_ star reaches its height with yours, but night after night, he painfully, frustratingly, evades your summons. You'd sooner not have risked waiting a full cycle for another attempt and so, sun by sun, you tirelessly researched. Places of power - objects that might once have related to his seat – there was so little to learn – and still so much you do not know.

It was only when you sat outside, struggling to see your notes under the weakening moon's light, that your error came to light:

You had approached the summoning with faulty assumptions.

He might hold the title of Elidibus, but his identity is long shaped by the Heart of Zodiark; Elidibus is not guided by Ophiuchus, but _the moon_.

And if yours is the sun, then –

In cyclic rotation, Sun and Moon dance, the star twixt their steps; it is only during the New moon that they meet as equals and opposites.

Relative to you, this is when Elidibus was calculated to be at his height.

In the darkness of the deepest night, you stand at Silvertear's shores, where the path to the Lifestream is clearest.

Accompanied by the lake's gentle lap and the faint chirp of vilekin, you hold those precious few remaining memories close to your heart, twining them with your star's magicks.

And at last, under the fading moon, the sun glows.

Even through closed lids you know success.

"You. . ." When you meet his gaze, Elidibus at last speaks, his soft voice lacking condemnation and recognition both; not even concealed features hide the depths of his confused bafflement:

At his summoning,  
At the star,  
At your attire.  
At your _size_.

_He knows naught._

Perhaps, then, you gifted him the greatest of mercies.

The individual once known only by Elidibus does not remember -

\- and nor do you -

But together, the Sun and Moon might learn.


	14. Convocation: Mandatory Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very slight Azem/Emet-Selch, generic Azem. Every year around harvest, the Convocation of Fourteen engages in _team building._
> 
> Every year around harvest, the Convocation of Fourteen is incapacitated for a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A commission for Orlais.

"Are you certain that's edible?"

Adorning sticks stacked precisely on a dish are bright and clear asymmetric crystalline clusters; visually appealing, their rainbow refracts direct light as might a jewel. Hades examines the unfamiliar treats with distant wariness, lifting one from the pile's top with the same caution he might a feral creature like to spread disease.

"Quite. It's a recipe from the east, shared when –" You shake your head; in the past recipes learned on your adventures have been questionable, it's true, but this is a traditional sweet of – "Never mind. Come here and tell me what you think."

Returning the candy to its place, Hades obliges with a light breath of feigned irritation and you motion to the food nearing completion.

"What is this?"

"A meal." A sideways glance does naught to conceal his ill-natured fussing. "I knew you'd be too busy –" _That_ is the most respectful way of putting it; the esteemed Emet-Selch would sooner not go to the event at all and you'd time on your hands between assignments, so preparing a meal for him to bring is a natural conclusion. "- to make the others something nice. We'll just say it's from you."

"That . . .wasn't necessary." His brow's furrow does not lessen, but a smile accompanies Hades' half-hearted admonishment.

" _'Thank you'_ is fine." Taking his lack of objection as acceptance, you finish preparations and fill the plate. "Come, I'm excited to see Lahabrea's face when you're early for once."

* * *

You're late.

An inevitability, you suppose; Hades' company appeals after so long apart and as abrasive as his attempts at getting you to relax might be, he wishes only for the best – even if that results in a short nap, head in his lap.

Ah, well. The others expected as much, anyway.

Foreseen as it was, your untimely arrival barely interrupts the gently pleasant rumble; the others know you as they do each other and this is but another quirk. Intense professional discussion and debate reveal much about individuals and, as such, _team building_ exercises are an unnecessary tradition - a responsibility to the citizens, more than as colleagues. And yet season after season, no matter how tightly duty binds, the entirety of the Convocation of Fourteen never fails to take part in the harvest's sharing of meals.

It is in this comfortable predictability that rare shows of surprise - the gentle parting of Deudalaphon's lips as Hades lifts the plate you prepared, for once, a proper meal - are most satisfying; stiffly pointing at the table to place it down, Deudalaphon's – always so accepting and kind - shock is a suitable consolation prize to Lahabrea's.

Offering a quick thanks, you turn; steeling yourself and concealing growing hesitation far better than Hades, you gently tug at his sleeve, guiding him towards the table where everyone's meals await.

It looks fine. It _smells_ fine - certainly an improvement from the last, oh, five events. Even Hades seems to calm a bit, placing his plate at the start, far from yours, before taking your seats.

With a nod of acknowledgement, the Speaker calls order, the room's bustle calming as he expresses the traditional pleasantries; he welcomes and thanks, praising everyone's commitment before dismissing everyone to their meals. For a group that guides the star, it is all so startlingly _normal_.

Comfortably rote, everyone chats quietly, ordering themselves in an informal line as they make their way from the plates and down the table, selecting offerings from every platter.

"Azem's cooking looks quite good, wouldn't you say?" Nabriales picks a particularly large piece off 'Emet-Selch's' tray. Even from behind, you know a red as deep as his mask blooms on Hades' cheeks at the tease.

"I trust you've added insects to the bread again." Even from two places away, you can feel Pashtarot's shoulders shake lightly at Hades' slight, though he wisely keeps his peace. _That_ is a harvest none participating will forget; everyone's first surprise crunch into that meal had been _unique_.

"Don't be absurd. I learned my lesson. Unlike others."

Does Nabriales pointedly glance towards Lahabrea? It is hard to tell from behind Hades.

"Be cautious." As you move to the next dish, Igeyorhm warns a curious Halmarut, answering question unasked. "Lahabrea's is . .strong."

"As it should be, then." Disregarding the warning, Halmarut picks up a particularly large sample. Though concealed behind a mask, you can almost see the color draining from Igeyorhm's features; Halmarut might well be ingesting fire, for all the strength there is in Lahabrea's unique spices. Fortunately, experience has taught Igeyorhm the Speaker's habits well enough to offer a solution, placed conveniently nearby his tray: a creamy drink, to be taken alongside Lahabrea's portion. She favors cooler tastes and often adds a sharp mint with a flavor that often contrasts, but such is a necessary sacrifice to survive the harvest.

Again, you progress down the line.

Camaraderie might be the public excuse for these outings, but as with aught else the Convocation engages in, the annual harvest is an event to share and experience new ideas. It is an inevitability, then, that participants employ more _experimenta_ l gifts and within a few seconds of its initial cut, _everyone_ knows whose it is. Fine as they might appear externally, the innards of Halmarut's stuffed 'vegetables' release an abhorrent reek, the truth of their nature revealed to all:

You've never seen stuffed morbol tentacles before, but Halmarut all but beams at the brilliance; suddenly, Lahabrea's spice seems appealing and you lump another tiny pile onto your plate to douse the tentacle in before moving to the next station.

. . .is the dish glowing?

Rapid blinks do little to subdue the food's brightness; taking a knife to it, its glow intensifies, a clear, gelatinous cover concealing the full extent of the jiggling orange interior.

"Yovra" Mitron proudly declares from immediately behind you. His description might be meaningless to the others, but you know better; hand trembling, the neon orange filling slips from its containment coating and back into the bowl. Yovra, large floating organisms dangerous enough to prey even upon your kind, with flesh known for secreting a hallucinogenic gel that charms those within range of its touch.

"Is it safe?" You manage, scooping the glowing pile of goo back onto your plate with an uncharacteristic fumble.

"I don't see why not." The light undercurrent of offense will need to be mediated with some tasks later, but for the moment, you accept his fare before moving to the next station.

"Are these _rocks_?" Altima murmurs, from near the head of the line prodding at your treats with a utensil.

Rising indignance matches Mitron's – you spent _weeks_ properly preparing those. "Rock _candy_. A dessert." They do not look _that_ like crystals –

Altima has enough grace to nod tightly, taking a stick, pink, murmuring a respectful, if cautious, "I see."

As quickly as it rose, the irritation falters; you cannot quite blame her. Some attempted foreign meals have, fairly, not been well received, be it through lack of ingredients or flawed preparation - or both - but this time - _this time_ \- you're quite sure it's right.

The rest of the line goes as smoothly as it can with your senses drowned by morbol stench and without further complaint about either your candies or Emet-Selch's offering, you reach the end of the table, where your plate awaits. Picking one for yourself, you move to take a second, dark purple crystal candy for Hades –

Only to bump into a smaller hand reaching for the same sweet.

Elidibus.

Having gone through the line early, he must be returning for a second treat; by the faint red on his cheeks, Elidibus wasn't intending to get caught in the act; over-indulgence is not looked favorably upon, after all.

Lifting a finger to your lips in silent _shhhh,_ you place another on Elidibus' clean plate, shooing him off to the back of the line with stifled smile and warmth in your breast.

"You enable each other." Hades murmurs, observing the scene and you wave off his irritation by placing the sweet on his plate.

He's really in no position for condemnation.

Only after returning to your designated seat do you finally examine your selection. Half of the buffet can be considered 'normal,' though of varying preparation quality, but those that aren't -

A tentacle's innards wriggle.

Neon orange gelatin liquefies, seeping into the nearby food.

Lahabrea's spices dizzy, piercing even beyond the morbol's reek.

Your stomach flips.

For days after the last event, the Convocation was unable to continue its functions, the star all but on hold.

Beside you, Hades' face takes on a shade as purple as the candy chosen for him.

Best get this over with quickly.

Utensils tremble lightly and the room falls to silence as each individual readies themselves for the inevitable.

You lift the yovra-soaked food into your mouth, its tingle numbing your throat.


	15. Mitron, Loghrif: Seaspray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon returning to Amaurot after field research, Mitron tells a tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive 5.4 spoilers.
> 
> The idea behind this fic is that an Artemis bow exists in-game, but also that we know the Eden Savage battles are Mitron's memory, which is~ quite fanciful. This led me to the idea that Mitron might have been something of an extravagant storyteller or minstrel.

A deep fog blankets Amaurot, muting color and light through formless embrace.

The Akadaemia's port cannot quite be claimed as bustling, but with researchers rushing about, preparing for specimen transport, it borders on organized chaos. Time is of the essence, and preparations must be made.

The Esteemed Mitron is returned.

 _Artemis_ returns.

"How was your journey?" Light, breathy, _happy_ , Loghrif makes no attempt to stymie the blossoming well of excitement at her partner's arrival. With an equal affection and professionalism, she takes Mitron's hand in hers, removing the glove and lifting it to her lips, lingering a moment more than necessary on weather-roughened skin.

Mitron tastes of salt. Delicate flakes of its crystals flick from Mitron's hood, dried residue from the faint sea's spray; though she cannot see them, Loghrif knows salt is buried deeply within even hood-shielded pale hairs- a wind-tousled mess she plans to right thoroughly within an hour of dismissal.

"The restoration efforts proved successful and the damage has been mitigated. A veritable wellspring of diversity has returned - a shame necessity demanded we return so soon – " Explanation is interspaced by data organization and discussions with the sample retrieval teams, Mitron commanding with a firmness attributing to an epithet borne with pride. "- though I'd sooner be away from you no longer than I must."

Before leaving, Mitron had assured - as wont to - that the task was commonplace duty: tagging, recording, scanning organisms to calculate biodiversity. Mitron has headed countless such ventures in the past and will be involved in countless more, yet Loghrif worries nonetheless. "I saw reports of a storm in the region and-"

With the last samples carefully extracted from the ship, Mitron's full attentions turn to her, smile growing in a way Loghrif knows all too well.

"That there was."

Embodying tightly controlled passion at their distance, all at once Mitron discards professionalism, sweeping near and pulling Loghrif close, that their breaths are shared and their hoods darken an already shrouded city. Donning masks, their foreheads cannot quite touch, but they rest against each other nonetheless, whispers of the sea's scent the only intrusive element in their union – and even then, the waters are bound deeply to Mitron.

"It was near enough to a shoal that it roused aught within the region, each life darting from its hiding place amongst the coral." Let it never be said that Lahabrea's tales are without equal; Mitron's tales lack in. . .reality at times, but nonetheless Loghrif clings every word with keen interest. "And as come the smaller creatures, so do the larger. And oh, what a magnificent specimen was summoned:"

Mitron's genuine excitement is tangible, bubbling the warmth of affection from Loghrif's chest, veins coursing it from hood to boot.

"A leviathan, well and true as any child's tales. With its coils, the sea churned, warping storm to maelstrom, each ripple of muscle resonating with the aether itself."

"A leviathan?! Not even the Akadaemia's research vessels are equipped to face such a creature, just a stray motion could well topple it." If Mitron speaks true, then the Word might declare further studies in the region hazardous.

"Indeed. And in us, it would find its supper. Or so it thought. The good ship _Gaia_ is no easy target. When raising its gaping maw – a cavern unto itself - from the sea hoping to tear into the vessel as if delicate flesh, its teeth nigh broke at impact." Mitron pulls away slightly as the tale heightens, motioning to the fore of the vessel. "The leviathan recoiled in fury, immediately changing its strategy to rend the offending meal asunder. And, as you know, we are mere scientists –" With a light _psh_ that blows Mitron's hood back, Loghrif dismisses the claim before it might even be stated; some additions are simply _too_ outrageous. "Unprepared for such a foe, even a barrage of magicks could do little to stymie its wrath, and each shake of its head tipped _Gaia_ wildly, threatening to capsize with the waves -"

"What of the shields?" Extravagant though the stories might be, Loghrif would miss none for the world. There is certainly _some_ truth to be found, should she dig deeply enough.

"With the storm raging, erratic aether disrupted _Gaia's_ conductivity and they fell easily to minor force. Now, where -? Oh yes. Round and round the leviathan circled its prey – that's us – its motions commanding the waves themselves, hoping the resulting funnel would at last grant victory - but its focus was its mistake. As we spiraled nigh vertically into the depths I spied it: " As Mitron pauses for dramatic effect, Loghrif feigns a cough, smile hiding behind her hand "A yovra."

"A yovra?" Oft does Loghrif indulge Mitron to great degrees, but some tales must be reeled in, in a matter of speaking. "Why would it be so near the shore?"

"The promise of easy supper draws even the creatures of the depths, provided they've the ability to withstand the transition in pressure. Sworn enemy to the levathan, the yovra, though comparatively small, has no few tools at its disposal fend off its rival and slowly – e'er so slowly – the yovra's toxins seeped into the sea, penetrating the serpent's scales and forcing the leviathan to takes its leave. It returned to depths unknown before I even had the opportunity to tag it." With an exasperated sigh, Loghrif pushes Mitron away, at last letting loose her laugher. With equally warm laughter, Mitron shrugs. "What? It may have lost the battle, but it fed well and I'd have loved to track its migrations. What a shame."

All but glowing in smile, Loghrif observes Mitron inspecting the integrity of the samples. Seemingly satisfied at their safety, Mitron marks each with the relevant data, signifying their readiness for transport back to the Word. 

"A story for the ages!" Loghrif calls from behind, knowing well that she cannot keep Mitron from duty any longer. "It's hard to imagine such an assault, I'll need to inspect the hull later, that I might get a feel for its scale."

Not even taking the time to indulge in the inevitable satisfaction of Mitron's balk, with wave and teasing bluff, Loghrif turns from the docks; there's much to prepare for Mitron's return home.


	16. Azem/Loghrif/Mitron: A Child's Tale

_This is a tale as old as time itself - one of many, all but forgotten, yet one every babe once knew:_

_This is a tale of the star._

_Know that any star's tale is not singularly its own; through the darkness the star travels, one of infinitely many lights decorating a night's sky - lights both like and unlike its own, each with their own tales - and at its side, twixt colors as vast and infinite as the universe itself, dances the sun._

_Across the sky the sun roams, overseeing the star itself. Cycle by cycle, all rise at its growing rays; tender but harsh, the sun warms and comforts, but equally compels, its journey balance's hand._

_For what manner of being can withstand the sun's might?_

_But in its great powers, the sun grows lonely._

_Day in and day out, it oversees the star and its peoples, loving them, comforting them - protecting them, giving way to the cold of night after its time grows too long._

_But ne'er can it touch._

_Ne'er can it remain._

_It has its duty, a responsibility to all, and so it continues its journey, cycle by cycle, never ending._

_The earth itself noticed first, for it was the sun's kiss that warms its soils, its heatless flames adorning the sky with red as it sinks low. The earth knew, above all others, the sun's strength -_

_and its limitations._

_Just as the sun is bound, so is the earth; cradled within the sea and the grasp of its twining rivers, it might never reach out, never do more than accompany the sun on its eternal journey._

_The seas, recognizing the earth's sorrow, communed with the earth it so loved - for the seas, too, know the sun's hand, their inhabitants moving 'neath glowing streams that pierce even its waves – and it did not take long to reach understanding in unspoken promise:_

_Together, they would travel the stars, accepting the sun's cyclic touch, its fleeting tales, and raise bounty to match its ceaseless love._

_And so it was: the sun's rays roused passion within the earth's bosom, and with the sea's guiding touch,_ life _flourished, its bounty revealed only in their union._

* * *

 _"_ What. . .is this?" Ryne flips through the pages of Gaia's book carefully, smiling as she fingers carefully illustrated constellations and flowers. Though not formal by any means, the art's roughness fits well with her tale's antiquated style.

"Just a story I heard once. I wanted to share it with the children." Gaia looks away, tugging the book back into her sleeve as she heads to Cabinet that her work might be registered.

"I've never heard such a thing." But Ryne smiles, nonetheless.

For she, too, once knew the sun.


	17. Elidibus: Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ancient One has a new friend.
> 
> Post-Eden. Sequel to "Promise." Only vaguely shippy, extremely metaphorical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orlais has been requesting I write a "happy only, good end" Elidibus/WoL and Unukalhai family fic universe, which this is a part of.
> 
> Think of the Ancient One as the family pet.

Against the moist soil and fresh leaves its footfall consists of muffled and nigh inaudible pats, the Ancient One's presence revealed only by the slight tug at a loose sleeve long since fallen from Elidibus' grasp.

"What do you have there?" Slurred words heed your command only after repeated blinks clear blurred vision.

In the dim aura of Unukalhai's lamp - did he work to such a late hour or just awaken? He must better care for his health, especially with the instability of incomplete flesh - and through the earliest tinges of morning sunlight peeking twixt the canopy, what the Ancient One fusses over becomes clear: _something_ rests upon the doll's tiny arm, extended out in offering.

_White._

A butterfly's soft wings unfurl, newly expanded and flapping lightly, drying themselves in preparation for first flight.

Simple and small, lonely and yet unbroken, new life returns to a broken world.

Crystals of umbral light must have frozen its chrysalis in time, its growth and development halted as if sealed away, rousing only as the star's balance returns.

Perhaps it is alone, the last of its kind, or perhaps there are yet others for it to discover, that the forest might once more dance under a flurry of wingbeats. Though its future is uncertain, it yet persists, as do all creatures.

The Ancient One does not understand the importance of its discovery - _cannot_ \- its simple mind observing the strange entity on its arm with awe and an unnatural stillness only a creation might muster, until at long last, as streams of light course as might molten rivers through the leaves to douse its wings, the butterfly leaps. The doll's featureless gaze follows high as it might, bidding farewell to its new friend as it soars into the unknown, preparing, as did its predecessors, to pass nectar from plant to plant, its unique skills once more a part of nature's cycle.

At your side, Elidibus stirs.


End file.
